


Chained To This Fear

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can he trust the new commander?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chained To This Fear

**Author's Note:**

> about four or five months into Arthur's command of the Sarmatian cavalry. I wanted to do something before Lancelot and Arthur's relationship expanded, and this is what came. I also had a dream the other night with the image of Lancelot, a sword pointed at an enemy's throat, Arthur at his side, bleeding. Weird. ;) Feedback is love! Title courtesy of the Evanescence song _My Heart is Broken_.

The sword was heavy and matched the heft of the one he wore at his back. His hands never wavered; strength was a constant friend and had been since he’d made the crossing that had almost destroyed him and his brothers. The sea was still a black demon in his mind, a demon that was worse than the idiot man in front of him, who to his credit wasn’t afraid of the blade at his throat.

Lancelot couldn’t understand the words the blue painted man spoke, but he could understand the tone. Arthur stood at his side, Excalibur at waist height, the longsword as sharp and dangerous as Lancelot’s twins. The commander was panting heavily and bleeding from a gash that had sliced his forearm open, the almost bone deep cut shining with rich colored blood. That color that was the same as Arthur’s cloak, that color that gave Lancelot nightmares, no matter the amount of drink he imbibed.

The Woad was glaring at both of them, the rest of the knights rounding up whatever survivors there were and putting them out of their misery. Rome took no prisoners. Lancelot figured the sooner they had the insurrection at the Wall taken care of, the sooner the Empire would be able to pull out of the godforsaken country it had had the misfortune to win more than three hundred years previous.

Sweat trickled down his back but he didn’t move or allow his gaze to waver, steely as his sword. The man he was guarding had sliced his commanding officer open, and that warranted death as far as he was concerned. Lancelot didn’t give a shit if any other Roman met his end here; but this was Arthur, the man responsible for keeping them alive, and he would be damned if he had to deal with yet another green Decurion learning how to care for the Sarmatian rabble that lived at Camboglanna.

He raised his sword at last, his left hand lightly fingering the hilt, and the whistling blow he was ready to deliver was quick and true and

“Wait,” Arthur’s hand caught his arm in mid-strike, the Woad’s angry face flushing in shock as Lancelot’s did, the enemy obviously ready to die, Lancelot ready to deliver it on swift wings. Blood from Arthur’s wound dripped to Lancelot’s arm, sliding wetly off his leather armor, pattering to the ground and the trampled leaves. “He may know something of Merlin’s whereabouts. We can question him back home,” he said, force in his deep voice, despite his young age. “I can get Vanora to –”

Lancelot, snarling and turning on Arthur, arrested his swing with much effort. “He cut you. He needs to die. End of story. Merlin will always come, Arthur. One dead Woad won’t make any difference to him.” Was the man so stupid to think the simple foot soldier would give the barbarians that had taken his home any kind of assistance? Lancelot shook his head and twisted his mouth, the heat of the day baking him inside his armor, the wind merely a gasp of hot air, an oven of firey coals that threatened and cajoled and promised quick death if they stayed out in it too long.

“Stop, knight,” Arthur bit the words off as Lancelot raised his blade again. “That’s an order.”

Cold chills marched up Lancelot’s back; anger was a beast he was intimately familiar with, and he would be dead a thousand times over had he not been it’s constant companion and friend. The sweat on his back dried in an instant despite the heat of the day; he saw Gawain stop and stare at him out of the corner of his eye as he was gathering up what was left of the enemy. The blond shook his head, a warning to Lancelot that he was all to eager to ignore.

“Commander,” Lancelot’s voice was thunderously tight in the sudden silence. He lowered his sword and saluted the other man, the gesture perfect and he whirled on his heel, leaving the blood coated Arthur to do what he wanted with the man who’d tried to take his life.

*

The small cells at Camboglanna weren’t usually very full, the occupants normally drunken legionaries or men who’d done stupid enough things to spend time in the stocks. Lancelot, his customary black clothing allowing him to blend easily against the darkness of the buildings, walked alone toward the door to the _Claustrum_ , his hands empty and mind clear.

He had successfully avoided Arthur since returning from the field, although the commander hadn’t seemed to be looking for him. Lancelot knew how the Romans were, though. He knew they could be kind one moment, promising things with golden tongues, and then brutal and harsh the next. He narrowed his eyes as the marks on his back twinged with memory, the lashes he’d felt wet and stinging and he blinked and the thoughts dissipated with the resurgence of nighttime wind. It was still achingly hot, but sweat was a part of life and he didn’t care. He only cared about doing what he’d come to do, and anything else could go fuck itself.

Bors and Vanora were already inside the building when he slipped through the door, the bigger knight grinning at him as he appeared seemingly out of nowhere, the torchlight flickering weakly on his dark hair, the pathetic amount of light casting his angular face into shadow. The goatee he’d begun keeping was short and sparse but it hid the beauty of his features and he allowed a white grin to cross his face as he joined the other two at the edge of the row of cells.

“He’s in the end one,” Bors said in a dramatic whisper. “Vanora’ll sort ‘em out for you.” He squeezed at the back of the woman’s neck; she hmphed and jerked away from his ham hand.

“Enough o’ that, lover. Come on, Lancelot, let’s get this done, as it’s not like I don’t have things to do,” she sighed, her skirts swishing on the dirty floor as they took the short walk to the cell the Woad man was in.

*

Lancelot squatted on his haunches, contemplating the man in the cell in front of him.

Could he do this? Could he do what Arthur should have? The commander was currently holed up in the _valetudinarium_ where he should be, his wounds being seen to, keeping his Roman nose out of the business that needed tending to. Lancelot rubbed at his mouth, the short hairs that grew around it pricking him and he closed his eyes, listening to the Woad breathe, feeling the other man’s eyes on him, anger rippling outward from the blue painted man, a tiny storm of hatred, the same storm Lancelot carried within him all day, every day. He wasn’t afraid of anger. He was married to it, and happy to prove it to anyone who cared to disagree.

He thought about what Vanora had said the prisoner had said, which had been pretty much what he’d expected. Merlin had loyal followers, and one denizen of Camboglanna with a red cloak and a big sword wouldn’t frighten any of them enough to make them give up information that would hurt them or their cause. It would have been the same for any of the Sarmatians.

The prisoner hawked and spat and Lancelot opened his eyes.

“You, knight. You have no powerful here, yes?”

Lancelot’s brows rose almost to his hairline, but that was the only show of surprise he allowed. The cur spoke rudimentary British, it seemed, along with his own tongue. Lancelot pursed his mouth and hunkered down further, his buttocks resting on the heels of his hobnailed boots. Mud got onto the seat of his leathers, but he ignored that just as he ignored the shock of the man speaking to him.

“Why?”

“Because, you didn’t have the sack to kill me when the red man stopped you,” the Woad laughed. Lancelot felt the storm rise, its wind blowing his mind this way and that, _rage_ his best friend and he smiled, a gentle motion of lips that carried with it all the power he needed. He made a face and cocked his head.

“Well now,” he drawled, “perhaps I wanted to keep you alive as well.”

 _Psshhhhh._ “He has rule over you.”

Dark, glittering eyes stared at the Woad, the danger in them apparent to the man, but Lancelot thought he was ignoring it. Idiotic fool.

“He is the commander here. But I am _not_ Roman, and I do as I wish.”

“I still yet live.”

Lancelot rose and stretched, his arms spread broadly at his shoulders, his slender body twisting this way and that. He pulled the key he’d lifted off the guard that was down at the tavern out of his trousers and opened the door to the cell, the surprise on the prisoner’s face worth the effort it had been stealing it.

“And for that, I thank you.”

Lancelot stepped inside the cell, shutting the door, the lock engaging. He crossed his arms and looked down at the man who’d threatened his livelihood and his life and his face was blank and calm, eyes flat and dark. The Woad stood, no weapons save his own fists and teeth, and copied Lancelot’s stance. The night was quiet and the sounds of the garrison were far away and Lancelot felt the storm rage in him, welcome and the heat of it burned his gut and he loved it like the friend it was. He waited.

“Why?”

“Because,” he answered simply, stepping up and around the prisoner, his right arm crooking around the other man’s neck, the dagger he always kept in his boot coming free of its sheath easily, shining nine inches of steel tasting the Woad’s throat. “Because you reminded me I have enough power yet.” He made a quick motion, a silvery flash of light against white and blue, and crimson spurted and flowed and hit the wall and his face and his clothing and heated his arms and fingers and he waited, holding the man up as the blood drained from him, the body in his arms growing lighter but heavier too and after a few moments it was done. Lancelot dropped the Woad’s body like so much sacking and stepped over him, wiping his dagger on the dead man’s clothing in the process. He shoved it back into his boot, and unlocked the door, stepping out, then shutting it gently, a tiny _snikt_ the only sound.

He left the blood on his face to dry, used to it, used to the feel of hot that rapidly turned cold and sticky. He was a soldier, and a cavalryman, and he was Sarmatian and he was stuck here, in the wild provinces that did him no favors by staying alive and possibly being let go to do whatever it wished because one Roman commander didn’t have the “sack” to kill it as he should have.

No one was about as he left the _Claustrum_ , the men having gone to bed as the moon was high and it would be only a few hours till dawn and more drills and more getting to “learn” Arthur’s style and Lancelot took his turn to spit to the side, the whirlwind of the storm inside dying and he shook and trembled as he made his way to the knight’s quarters, his little corner bunk empty and threadbare and he crawled onto it, legs folding in to his torso, the shaking coming harder now.

He swallowed and swallowed, his throat dry and dusty, his fingers scrubbing through his hair and over his blood stained face, the motions repetitive and hopefully enough to cause a cease to the trembling he hated and the battle lust was fading at last and he bit his lip until the copper tang filled his mouth and he put his head down on his arms and found his eyes could weep, even still.

He could have slit that prisoner’s throat in broad daylight, and he could have swung, for Arthur would have had no recourse but to have him punished, as prisoners were kept away from the legionaries and the knights until the commanders had their fill of whatever information they wanted. He could have swung, and by the gods that might have been better this aching, awful place, full of his brothers but empty of anything that meant anything to him, inside.

Castus was new, and seemed to want to be the type of man they could trust, but he was Roman and their commander, and Lancelot knew how that would go. He could try and trust the other man, but things would end up the way they always did, and he or one of his fellows would pay for being innocent and stupid. The Roman man had been kind so far; had asked Lancelot his opinion, had tried to openly include him in planning and discussions and on one disastrous occasion had shown up at the tavern, trying to engage the knights in whatever he considered friendly banter.

Despite his attempts, no one trusted him in that way. Not yet.

Lancelot smiled through his mask of blood and tears; he knew Arthur would know who’d done this when the other man woke in the morning, some page or other running to his quarters to tell him the Woad prisoner was dead in his cell, throat cut. And then Arthur would have the choice to do whatever he wished with Lancelot, and Lancelot thought that would be for the best, as he would go down fighting, their new _Ala_ commander nothing to be afraid of.

He didn’t need anyone else to try and trust. It was too dangerous and painful, and he wouldn’t do it, no matter he’d saved Arthur’s life the day previous, no matter that he hadn’t had to do that. The Woad man was dead now, as he should have been, and Arthur was still alive as he should be, for Lancelot and the others were done with learning new Romans.

At first light the summons came and he rose fluidly off his cot, the blood on his face marking him as culpable, his swords strapped to his back, his body straight in the line of other knights that stood waiting for Arthur, the stiffness and anger in Arthur’s gait apparent as he approached the group of cavalrymen.

A tiny smile decorated Lancelot’s face even as Arthur stopped in front of him, the birdsong brilliant in the morning air, the heat coming as it always did, his life measured down to that one moment, waiting, watching for death to come, orders issued from the man who stood in front of him, green eyes chips of jade. Anger vibrated through Arthur and Lancelot caught and reflected it –

_fuck_

Arthur stared at him, and the world shrank to pinpoints of emerald, and he could taste the blood that had dried on his lips. He felt his blades on his back and could see the Roman’s own sword, Excalibur as it had been called by his warrior father, marking his spine and rising over Arthur’s head as Lancelot’s did. He saw the quiver of nostrils and could feel the heat of Arthur’s breath as he stared at Lancelot, arms held loosely at his sides, his armor simple and black like his men’s, the only difference his red, red cloak that lay flat to his back, attached at the shoulder by wide metal rings.

Lancelot wore the blood on his face like war paint. He wore it like the Woads wore their blue dye, proud of it, no matter that his eyes still burned from the unwanted tears he’d shed. The man across from him mirrored his stance and their gazes were –

Arthur’s face was all he could see, and it was suddenly as if they were switched, and Lancelot could see _himself_ , bravado and blood and ruined black leather and angled cheekbones and tousled fat curls and dark smudges under his lower lashes that made him into a ghost. Blank, hollow eyes, darkness encompassing everything he was and might be.

And then he saw _Arthur_ and he knew him, knew him to be what he said he was, his lines about friendship and camaraderie not lines, but the truth, and -

and suddenly he wasn’t afraid. Suddenly this man was connected to him, and Lancelot sucked in a slow breath of air and tasted the blood on his lips. The blood he’d shed for this man’s honor, truth be told. Blood he’d shed for Arthur’s life, and he wasn’t sorry.

They watched each other, and the other knights shifted in the heat, and Lancelot at last closed his eyes.

 _Everything_ was different – and it was his fault, fucking pissing hellfire. He hadn’t seen it coming, and hadn’t been able to close himself off to what Arthur might bring him and the others. And now it was too late. He felt the other man and his thoughts of possibility were dangerous but scarily exciting and he cursed inside, the musical words of his people’s language not the balm they normally were.

He waited, and when no sound was forthcoming, he opened his eyes, and Arthur was gone down the row, giving the knights orders, and he watched as the red cape swirled away in the dust, and he stood in place even as the other men bustled about him. He stood in the courtyard as the knights rode out around him, and he stood in the courtyard as Arthur came last, his giant white too big for him, and he stood in the courtyard as Arthur stopped and looked at him.

Lancelot looked up at him.

The sun caught Arthur’s hair and turned it into a miasma of colors and Lancelot broke free from his trance and made his way to the stables, mounting his own horse, following the others out into the wilds of the Wall, Arthur waiting for him at the gate to the fortress.

They rode abreast, and did not speak, and the blood that decorated Lancelot’s face matched the cloak Arthur wore, and Lancelot did not allow himself to think again for the rest of the day.


End file.
